


Racing Against Time

by Moon_Rose (Moonrose91)



Series: Horse Raised Knowledge [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, Prompt Fill, five and one fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2018-02-09 06:24:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1972275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonrose91/pseuds/Moon_Rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>D'Artagnan is used to racing against time.</p><p>(Warnings are in the chapter titles.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mother (Off-screen Childbirth and Stillbirths Explicitly Mentioned)

**Author's Note:**

> Link to the [prompt](http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/774.html?thread=789510#cmt789510)
> 
> In the beginning of Episode 4 I was pretty impressed with how bloody *fast* d'Artagnan ran to catch the assassin. That boy was burning some serious boot leather! Hence this prompt-5 times d'Artagnan ran to save someone's life (because horses weren't an option for whatever reasons). I have no preferences in regards to pairings; friendship is also good. And it would be neat if it wasn't just limited to the musketeers or Constance. For example maybe as a youngster in Gascony d'Artagnan had to run to fetch a midwife or something? 
> 
> Bonus points for 1 time someone ran to save d'Artagnan's life. :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Off-screen Childbirth and Stillbirths Explicitly Mentioned)

Mother is gasping for air as she whimpers, clutching at Father's hand as she does so. She is murmuring lowly in Italian, her words a soft rise and fall that he has grown up with, along with the language of Gascony, French a secondary language learned only because he must.

His mother has never been comfortable speaking in French, always muttering about how all the words are wrong, but _Italian_.

 _That_ she spoke in at great length and he had learned it at her knee, along with Spanish.

She is gasping again and he hears her murmur about a…midwife, he thinks and he hears his father respond that they cannot afford one, that they'll have to try on their own, and he remembers Madame. She is beautiful, in Alex's opinion, though not as beautiful as Mother and he is slipping away from the door way, tugging on his boots before he opened the door and slipped out into the driving rain.

He was soaked in seconds, but it didn't matter.

Instead he just took a deep breath...and he ran.

The rain struck his face like thousands of tiny whips, which only drove him on as he raced against some invisible opponent. Normally, he raced along the wall against the horses that his father bred (beautiful black creatures with wavy manes and tail and slight feathering), but this time it seemed less like fun and more like he  _had_  to run, he  _had_  to race,  _had_  to get to Madame.

Get to the woman who dressed in bright colors and sharp cut corsets before his opponent beats him to the unknown finish line.

Beat the fast little filly before the wall runs out.

He runs faster.

*~*~*

Alex crashes into the door, pounding on the door as he pants out prayers in a butchering of Spanish, Italian, French, and the language of Gascony. He continues to pound on the door, begging for Madame to be in, to be there and not busy, feeling as if he is approaching the edge of the wall, even though he’s stopped.

He stumbles forward, still gasping for air, when the door is wrenched open, unable to stop his fall. “Alex!” she exclaims, dark hands reaching down for him as she carefully helps him to sit up, trying to urge him to breathe.

She is dressed more like Mother now, simply and without her usual bright colors, and her hair, blacker than the night, is tied back, and kneeling in front of him. “Breathe, petit, and tell me what is wrong, with words I can understand,” she soothed softly and he continued to pant, tears mingling with the freezing rain.

“It is Mama! She’s…she’s talking about a midwife and Papa…Papa says…” he panted out and she stilled before she nodded sharply.

“Can you run again?” she asked and Alex nodded.

“Good. You go straight to the apothecary. You bang on his door till he wakes up and you tell him, Madame Noire needs medicine for pain. Here is the coin to pay for it. Hurry!” she ordered and Alex nodded once before he tore off, heading for the apothecaries as he raced the filly in his mind once more.

*~*~*

Alex was panting as he into his house, shuddering and soaked, surprised when Madame suddenly appeared before him. He jumped and she smiled, brushing back his soaked hair before she took the bag from his hands. “Good boy petit,” she murmured and rushed back to the bedroom, Mother’s screams cutting through the air.

Alex looked around, still shuddering, still trying to get his breathing back to normal, when he was suddenly lifted into the air. He made a soft sound of protest.

He was seven years old!

The protest died, however, as the warmth took him over, even as his mother screamed and he buried his face in his father’s shoulder as he was cuddled close, his entire body trembling from the cold and from all the running, wondering if he had run off the edge of the wall when he wasn’t looking while the filly continued on.

*~*~*

The grave, like the other two next to it, has no name and is only marked by a simple wooden cross. His mother is sobbing into her hands as his father wraps an arm tightly around her, and Alex wraps his fingers in her skirts, trying to help and wondering if he truly is.

He starts when a hand touches his head and he turns, looking up to smile at Madame, who smiles weakly back, and looks back at the graves, hidden in the far corner of the farm they live on, sheltered by a tree.

When his mother has stopped crying, Madame walks away and mounts up on the Cob Father keeps around because of his gentle nature, before she rides off.

Father walks Mother back to the house and Alex drifts after them.

He is still young when he learns the wooden crosses mark the graves of the siblings that were born without breath in their bodies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will admit "Dog Days Are Over" by Florence + the Machine inspired this.
> 
> I read the prompt, searched the lyrics that blasted through my head, and went, "Huh. I could do a thing like this."
> 
> So I did.
> 
> I also have a weakness for five and ones.
> 
> They make me happy.
> 
> Anyway...
> 
> On d'Art's first name; I picked "Alex" because, one, I haven't heard a canon name, and two, Alexandre Dumas's, illegitimate, son who went on to become a successful playwright and novelist, like Alexandre Dumas himself, was also named Alexandre. So, I honestly couldn't resist.
> 
> On that note; the book!d'Art was written by Alexandre Dumas to honor his father. Alexandre Dumas's father is...Alexandre Davy de la Pailleterie (full name; Thomas-Alexandre Dumas-Davy de la Pailleterie), or as he was known, Alexandre Dumas.
> 
> He entered the military under a "false" name, much like how the Musketeers entered the Musketeers under false names. It is of my belief that Alexandre Dumas, the author, so respected and loved his father that he could not allow his father to fade, even if he only lived on in fictional mirrors, and did his best to insure he was remembered, even if by a false name.
> 
> So...all of the Musketeers (though book!d'Art more so than the others) are based off of Alexandre Davy de la Pailleterie, who seems to be a tactical genius of the highest caliber and furiously hard working and determined, and I lost a few hours researching him...maybe.
> 
> (No, I totally did. He was fucking amazing and, from what I can gather, a tactical genius. He retired as a divisional general, which, in Napoleon's Army, the closest equivalent is a _four star general_! Lost. Hours. It was awesome! I haven't been this excited about history since reading about Ladies of Sparta!)


	2. Father (Mention of Someone Dying in a Fire, most especially in the last part)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexandre is thrown from a green stallion during training.
> 
> (There is some running, but d'Art uses a horse this time to get someone with medical help. He didn't as a kid because his mind was, 'I need to run,' but also, 'nighttime + rain = bad bad things')

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo...went away from the prompt a bit.
> 
> Sorry Prompter!!
> 
> EDIT: I did some editing as, originally, d'Art was supposed to be 12 in this chapter, right when the Musketeers of the Guard would have been created, and they would have started supply horses for the Musketeers, but before would have helped supply for the cavalry.
> 
> The French did have one at this time.
> 
> HOWEVER, when I de-aged him...I forgot to change the references.
> 
> So...I've done some major reworking, so if you reread this, yes it is has changed.

Alex watches as his father talking soothingly to the five year old Friesland stallion (Pierre), and swallows slightly.

At ten, he should be helping his father, should be the one prepping to mount up while his father holds the stallion still and murmurs calmly. He _should be_ helping, but his father has only grown more protective and cautious since the fire.

Since Mother died.

Alex shivers a little at the memory, fingers clenching against the stone wall, the feeling of the flames making him shiver, even though he knows they aren’t really there.

He blinks when his father calls his name and looks up, nodding shakily when his father just stares at him, Pierre shifting nervously, ears flicking rapidly. He knows Father is being protective because he feels as Alex does.

Worried that if he blinks, if he looks away for one second, when he looks again, the last of his family will be gone.

His eyes dart back to Pierre, trying to shake his dark thoughts, focusing on the way he side-steps away, nervous, despite being a week into his saddle training, from his father.

Alex, despite the foolish fear that makes his chest feel too small for his heart, isn't too worried.

He has watched his father buy horses fearful of men and their hands, of their  _voices_ , and carefully mold them into the finest horses in all of France. Carefully groom them and train them into being mounts worthy of the soldiers they would carry.

He has no doubt that his father will succeed with the surprisingly skittish stallion. His father is soon mounting up into the saddle and Alex stills entirely, as if he is a sculpture sitting on the small pasture wall.

At first, it goes well.

Pierre is still skittish, but his father is easy, gentle words in the Gascon language lilting through the air as he runs his hand along the stallion’s neck. Soon, he is moving calmly and Father smiles at Alex before he focuses back on the stallion.

It is a quiet day and Alex watches his father work, hoping to be as good as him one day. To train horses either for nobles or the cavalry, or just for themselves.

Alex one day wants a line of horses that join in the lineage that make their horses the first choice for the cavalry. That he is so good that they send _him_ to buy surplus horses if a special horse is needed.

Father says he has the soul for it, but Alex is still unsure.

The sun is almost straight above them when something startles the stallion.

He rears with a scream of fear and his father is thrown from the saddle, hitting the ground far too close to the panicking horse’s hooves.

Alex is already running however, leaping over the prone form of his father, trying to be a shield between Pierre and his unconscious father. He speaks soothingly in a slaughtering of Italian, Spanish, and Gascon language alike, a mix of languages that only Alex speaks.

The one he made with his mother as a child and that he’ll never speak again.

He is careful as he herds the stallion away from his father, Pierre blowing and trembling, but otherwise calming down. Alex knows, however, down into the very bottom of his soul, that it would take the smallest thing to set him off again.

He also knows that all their good work is undone now. That Pierre will never go into the cavalry, and will probably never be bred either, in case his nervous disposition is passed on.

Alex wonders what will happen to him now, but pushes those thoughts aside as he cautiously gathers up the reins. Pierre squeals at the movement, tossing his head, before Alex soothes him. He quickly leads the horse out and ties him to the gate before he runs back to his father, landing next to him on his knees.

“Papa?” he called quietly, running his fingers through his father’s hair, only to find blood there. “Papa, no,” he whispers and looks around, his heart racing in his chest.

He is then on his feet and running for Pierre. The horse squeals and pulls back slightly, even as Alex works on calming him back down.

The whites of his eyes are showing again, even as Alex croons softly at him. He reaches up and, when Pierre is settled, wastes no time in mounting up.

Time is off the essence and his own mount, a chestnut Cob gelding, is too slow.

Pierre snorts nervously, even as Alex holds on tight with his thighs.

With a nudge and a gentle pull, Pierre is facing the lane and they are gone, dust picking up around them.

*~*~*

Alexandre groans softly as he slowly comes to and blinks in surprise when he sees the tanned, dark haired physician filling his vision, dressed in the dark colors, bordering on black, that he always favored. “Olivier?” Alexandre questioned and winced when Olivier tugged on something around his head.

“Yes,” he answered simply, eyes flicking over his face before looking back up at his hair.

“What happened?” Alexandre asked.

“Wait. Hopefully, it will come back to you,” Olivier answered calmly, eyes tight.

“Alex?” he asked, trying to sit up, only to be forced to lie back before Alexandre suddenly remembered the stallion throwing him, hitting the ground then…

“…is fine,” Olivier stated.

“Truly?” Alexandre questioned.

“Shaken, frightened, running all over the place trying to help. One day, that son of yours is going to run himself straight into the jaws of death,” Olivier stated and Alexandre shivered at the image.

Of missing his grab to hold back his son while his mother screamed within the burning cottage, the boy rushing to save her, even as the fire gutted the house. Instead, the memory took over, of holding his son as he became a grief filled storm held inside a frame that was mostly skin and bones for the next week, furious and close to destroying all that surrounded him, unable to exact revenge for his mother’s death.

He swallowed slightly and stared at Olivier. “Monsieur Brocher, where is my son?” he asked.

“Out running for supplies. He’ll be back soon,” Olivier promised and Alexandre nodded slowly before his eyes slowly slipped close.

*~*~*

A little over ten years later, at an inn in the rain and the mud and the cold, Alex will run to his father’s side, only to discover he didn't run fast enough.

D'Artagnan is left with only a name not his own to remember his father's last moment by and he stands up, running straight into the waiting storm of grief and revenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friesland stallion = Frisian horse
> 
> I decided to do it that way because Frisian horse is very territory name and he would probably specify that these horses are decedents of the horses of Friesland, bought and bred by his father. The reason I decided d'Art's father is a horse breeder?
> 
> Because we see them riding the exact same breed made me decide that they are probably bred on their farm.
> 
> Around this time, they would have been used, mostly, by the Spanish, as the Netherlands, where they were created, were linked with the Netherlands, and cross-bred with Andalusian horses. The fact Alexandre breeds a "Spanish" horse, might be something to remember.
> 
> You know, maybe.
> 
> (Still all black though.)
> 
> So...anyway, yeah...basically made it so they are the, main, suppliers of horses to the Musketeers, after they are created because of previous good work in breeding horses for the Cavalry. Why?
> 
> Because fun.


	3. A Mare (Talk of Animal Death and Talk of Euthanization of an Animal, but NEITHER happen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> d'Art runs to get his father when a mare starts to have trouble with giving birth.
> 
> (There is _talk_ of horses dying, foals dying, and foals having to be shot because they are starving and that is a kinder fate. _None_ of it happens, in story, I promise. But, yeah...)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do as realistic as I can portrayal of a 1600s horse breeding farm. They would have kept goats for orphan foals, as they would have learned goat milk helped keep foals alive, since foals = money, and they would have to try after they had already "wasted" a _year_ (and, usually, lost a mare), so they would need to get their money back.
> 
> The end notes has a quick overview of why twinning is deadly to horses that is probably slightly disturbing for some, after the *~*~*
> 
> Also, yes, that is a Series Tag that's been added.
> 
> In the Series Notes Timeline will be created so that things mentioned in the TV show (up to Episode 4) will be correlated with events in the fic(s).
> 
> Because, this little thing spawned a verse and if I write anything in it, I'll throw them in here.
> 
> You can prompt anything you would like to see, though that is no guarantee I'll write it, for this verse (which is d'Art being named Alex, as in EVERY OTHER VERSION his name is Charles, but my 2 am brain cackled way too much over this and I don't argue with 2 am brain) and whose family who breeds horses for the Musketeers (as well as knowing how to run a more traditional farm, which I don't go into because I am not so good at farming techniques as I am on horses), but...
> 
> Yeah.
> 
> Yell at me later.

Father has promised that, as Alex was now twelve, he could have his first foal from his Father's favored mare, Odette.

She had successfully foaled before, though this was to be her last foal, as she was having trouble this year.

He had thought it strange, remembering the birth of Jacques, who was an unusually large foal, and she had not had nearly as many problems. Concerned as he was, Alex spent almost all of his free time with her, trying to ease her stress, as she was obviously having trouble, and often just grooming her, even when she lay down more often.

Since she didn't try to roll, Alex kept calm about that, but as the year of pregnancy slowly came to an end, Alex began to fret. Odette was obviously having problems and, as it came closer, Father moved her to the large foaling stall while she paced around the area.

Alex, quietly, moved to sleep on the other side of the foaling stall, curled up tight as he waited for his foal to be born.

It was past Easter Sunday when she began to sweat and pace, churning up straw before she lay down, and then got back up, pacing around and around. Alex had settled to wait where he could see her, but she couldn’t see him. After more than a few hours of her grunting and groaning, of the dawn spreading across the sky and no sign of a foal (and, thank God, no other problems), Alex stood up and ran.

He ran from the stable and the gasping mare, from the stables and down the lane. He pushed faster and faster, remembering the filly of his youth and the way they raced each other down the wall. Of reaching the end of the wall suddenly and crashing, of having to stop from doing that, turn just right, and keep on running.

Keep on running as he slammed through the door, ignoring the way Jerome, his cousin (older by a few years and already having _his_ foal; a stallion that Alex wasn’t allowed near during the Season because he hadn’t been trained properly and could only be handled by experienced handlers at that time) jumped and called his name, even as he ran straight to Father.

He crashed into him and grabbed onto his doublet, staring up at him with wide eyes. “Alex, mon fils, what is wrong?” he asked.

“It is Odette! The foal’s not coming!” Alex exclaimed and, for the first time in Alex’s life, he saw his father run as if the Gates of Hell had opened behind him.

Jerome was quick to follow and Alex was out the door, easily beating his father down the road to go help Odette.

*~*~*

Alex started when his father cursed. “What’s wrong?” Jerome asked, crouched next to Father, who was assisting Odette in the birth.

“She’s twinning,” he cursed and Jerome hissed while Alex’s eyes widened.

He knew most mares did not survive a twinning and, if they did, their foals rarely survived. If they were lucky, one would.

If they were unlucky, they would lose both the foals and the dam, something Alex was sure Father would not be able to ever fully recover from. “Alex, run to the house. Bring up a bucket of water and get all the clean cloths you can. This is going to be a while and we need to work fast,” he stated and Alex nodded before he was up on his feet and running for the house.

He stood and he _ran_.

*~*~*

Alex helped rub off the filly as she shivered in the straw, having already done the same for the colt as Odette climbed to her feet. The colt was a little smaller than the average foal, but the filly was smaller by a bit, the pair having somehow survived.

Alex sat back in amazement as the foals clambered to their hooves, both still shaking slightly, though the colt was quicker to get to his hooves than the filly. The filly, in fact, seemed content to stay with Alex until he started pushing at her to get up, Father and Jerome having, for some reason, restrained Odette slightly, now that she was mostly cleaned up.

Within the hour, the foals were on their feet and the colt was already making his way to Odette, who squealed and tried to get at him. Alex jumped slightly at that and looked at his father, who sighed.

“It happens sometimes. Get the foals to nurse and we’ll focus on getting goat milk after, but hope there is enough of the first day’s milk for both foals or we’ll be making the choice of which will survive much sooner,” Father stated.

Alex nodded weakly and did just that, the colt drinking first before the filly coming up, the pair trying to get Odette to acknowledge them, only for her to reject them and nearly injure them.

Once safe, they turned her outside, the foals calling for her, though Alex was quick to give them attention, barely listening to Father and Jerome. “We don’t have anyone to care for them and Odette has _never_ rejected her foals before,” Father stated and Alex, who had been watching the foals sleeping in the straw that still needed to be changed, ran over to him.

“I can do it! I’ll take care of the foals!” he stated and Father sighed, along with Jerome.

“Alex, you cannot! Foals need constant care! They need to be fed often and will not sleep through the night! There is also a chance that they will not be able to learn to be with horses!” Father stated and Alex grabbed at his Father’s, now dirty, doublet.

“Father, my Cob can! Nicolo is great with small foals! He can teach them to be like horses! He just…can’t feed them. But I can! I can do that!” Alex stated and Father sighed before he gripped his hands gently and knelt down to stare into Alex’s eyes.

“Alex, they are not likely to survive. One orphan foal, maybe, but two? Two might be too much and then you’ll have to choose which foal to have shot, if they don’t both die. You’ll have to teach them to drink from a bucket, if they can’t learn to suckle from a nanny goat and it goes on, Alex. And in the end, they might still die,” Father stated, even as Alex shook his head.

“I’ll do it! I’ll take care of them!” Alex protested and Father sighed before he nodded.

“Very well. You can take care of them. We’ll take care of the rest,” he stated and Alex hugged his father tight, before he turned back to the foals, brushing his fingers lightly across night black coats.

*~*~*

It was exhausting, running around taking care of the foals. They were constantly hungry and, once they decided he was their mother, hated to be apart from him. Nicolo was only enough of a distraction for Portia and Roger, as he had named the pair, for a time before they were off searching for him once more, demanding his attention and everything else they required.

He had managed to teach them to drink from a bucket, meaning he no longer had to use a mixture of leather and old wine bottles to feed them, which often had mixed results that sometimes ended in spilled goat’s milk.

When he addressed the foals, who were slightly smaller still than their agemates, by their names his Father would shake his head, reminding him gently that they could still die.

But Alex wouldn’t let them! He would make sure they made, he would!

In the rush of running around and taking care of two foals, Alex had completely forgotten about the promise of only _one_ foal, even as Roger began to grow into a likeness of his sire while Portia remained smaller than her twin, Nicolo easily guiding them through horse society as their uncle when Alex put them in the fields with the a select number of approved geldings, mares, and their foals.

*~*~*

“Four months old and still alive,” Jerome whispered as he stared down at his little cousin, curled up between his ‘children’, the colt being used like a pillow while the filly used Alex as one.

“He did it,” Uncle Alexandre stated, surprised and Jerome chuckled.

“You did too, according to Papa,” Jerome stated and Uncle nodded.

“I just wish…you should see him light up when there is talk of Musketeers,” Uncle whispered, staring down at the three.

“I know. He would be happy here too, Uncle. Staying here wouldn’t make him unhappy,” Jerome pointed out, silencing himself when the colt, Roger, lifted his head as if to glare at them before he went back to sleep.

“They’re eating, but don’t seem ready to wean. Then again none of their agemates are weaning yet, not really,” Jerome stated and Alexandre nodded.

“They’ll be fine. Now…which will be the one to join their agemates in training for the Musketeers?” Uncle asked and Jerome nodded sadly at the thought.

“That’s not till later though. For now, let him have this. He doesn’t have to decide till their closer to five anyway. Besides, Roger has to be gelded, to keep twinning from happening again,” Jerome stated and Uncle sighed.

“Pity about that too. He would have made a fine stallion. But, the fear of twinning is too great,” he murmured and Jerome nodded in sympathy.

They watched the sleeping forms for a while longer before he looked to his uncle. “How is he going to wean them?” he asked as the foals shifted in the straw.

“Well, he already leaves them alone for chunks of the day. They don’t need to nurse as much now, so he will probably wean them in time with the rest. And they’ll have Nicolo, the other approved geldings, and their other agemates to help. If they start to panic, it is easily remedied, similar to what we do with regular foals. Hopefully, the fact he hand raised them will make them easier to train after,” Uncle stated.

Jerome nodded and pat his uncle’s shoulder before he stood up and walked away, leaving his uncle to watch Alex and his foals.

*~*~*

“That _beast_ of yours, just kicked me,” Jerome growled as stumbled across the mud and the four year old Roger snorted.

The sixteen year old Alex sighed and walked to the Roger’s head, replacing the groom before he brought the gelding’s face up to his. He then glared at the gelding and spoke to him in Italian before he rubbed Roger’s neck and glanced at the glaring Jerome. “He won’t do it again,” Alex promised in French and Jerome grumbled before he stepped up against the gelding’s back right hoof once more and prepped the gelding’s hoof for shoeing.

He ignored the mix language of Alex’s no one could understand and he had just finished this hoof when the rush of hoofbeats filled the air. He put the hoof on the ground and looked up, stepping out of the gelding’s kick range as he did so.

He watched as four men rode up, one dressed as the Captain of the Musketeers, and Uncle Alexandre stepped up to greet them. “Treville, what’s the matter?” Uncle questioned.

“Spanish raid has lost us twenty-two horses. We are in need of replacements,” Treville answered and there was murmuring of condolences and an agreement.

“Do we have twenty-two horses?” Alex whispered.

“Yes, we do. But that means we won’t be able to make the quota next year unless we do a lot of buying instead,” Jerome muttered.

“We will be fine. Besides, Roger will be ready by next year for the Musketeers,” Alex answered and Jerome turned to him.

“You’ve made your decision then?” he asked as he walked back over to shoe the last hoof.

“I highly doubt I’ll get any bigger and Portia seems too dainty than most we send to the Musketeers. And, as I have inherited my mother’s skin and build and eyes, but at least I have my father’s hair, she is the one for me,” Alex answered and Jerome chuckled before he cursed when Roger shoved him with his hoof, sending him sprawling back into the mud.

“Roger!” Alex exclaimed before rattling off in that mix language again (one that seemed to be both Spanish and the language of Gascony at once and maybe even had some more) while the grooms hid their laughter at his plight.

“Well, I shall pity the poor Musketeer who gets _this_ creature as his mount then,” Jerome grumbled and got up out of the mud, the gelding settling with a crunch of an apple filling the air as he gave Roger his last shoe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, d'Art's Roger = Athos's Roger.
> 
> Upon learning that Roger was/is a French name, I couldn't resist, I am sorry.
> 
> *~*~*~*
> 
> My research on 1600s horse breeding failed me. A lot of the stuff wasn't written down, or is just so...yeah, no.
> 
>  _Anyway_...
> 
> Twinning, or a mare giving birth to twins, is incredibly dangerous to the mare, because a horse's uterus is built for _only_ one foal.
> 
>  _If_ the mare carries both to term, it usually results in the foals being stillborn, one being stillborn, or both being born premature and dying. Another thing that can happen is that the mare dies or rejects one, or both, of the foals.
> 
> A c-section is probably also needed to get the foals out, and there is lots of danger involved for all.
> 
>  _Usually_ , in the early stages, if there are two fetuses, one fetus is absorbed by the mare before ever getting to this point, a big reason twins are rare, considering the uterus is only built for one.
> 
> Ta-da, you have now learned about equine anatomy.
> 
> Somewhat.


	4. Ambush (Canon Typical Violence and Death of Enemy)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set after 'Sleight of Hand'.
> 
> D'Art and the Inseparables are ambushed.
> 
> Pinned down in a bad spot by two people who seemed to have way too many bullets, and far too much gunpowder, d'Art takes a chance he shouldn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to the reality of the prompt, which is d'Art running to save a life.
> 
> Honestly, the last exploded (I couldn't let it go, I wanted to write metaphorical running around too), and so now, they are evenly balanced.
> 
> Three of his life before a Musketeer, three for each of the Inseparables.
> 
> ...Well, that was a slight spoiler.
> 
> Oh well.
> 
> Also, TOMORROW IS EPISODE 5!!!
> 
> *shrieks excitedly*

"D'Artagnan!" Aramis shouted when Portia reared up slightly in surprise as the ground in front of her exploded slightly.

He stayed in the saddle however, even as he quickly had her retreating back, spinning on her back hooves before cantering back to regroup with the rest. Roger was steadfast as Athos aimed for the trees and fired back, all four ducking slightly as more guns went off, Portia snorting softly as she calmed, being surrounded by three calm horses.

Aramis had pulled out his arquebus, aiming for the trees as he tried to guide his gelding, Tristan, with just his legs, though he wasn’t able to do so with any great success. D'Artagnan (and he was relieved that he only went by his last name now, that he didn’t have to hear _Alexandre_ and forget, for a moment, that his father was dead and would look over his shoulder to where his father must be) didn’t hesitate to lean over and grip Tristan’s reins, murmuring to him soothingly in the language of Gascony as he guided the gelding along after the other two, allowing Aramis to focus on aiming instead of guiding his horse.

Soon they were hiding in a long abandoned…building, though whether it was once a stable or a home, d’Artagnan couldn’t tell, instead focusing and getting the horses into much cover as possible as those with the best aim (Athos, Aramis) settled at the ‘doorway’. With soft command, the horses were soon laying on the ground in a way that, while difficult, they could quickly get back to their feet, though Petite, Porthos’s mare, seemed extremely reluctant to do so.

Porthos had joined the other two and d’Artagnan slide up next to him, jumping back when a musket ball just missed his head. “This was just supposed to be a simple mission. Deliver letters, get back with a reply. No one even knew when we were leaving,” Aramis sighed as he aimed, firing before he pulled back, Athos shooting back.

“Should’ve expected it really. Every time we bring d’Artagnan along, things go wrong,” Porthos teased, smiling briefly at d’Artagnan, who had protested being the source of their trouble.

Athos made a deriding noise, stepped out to shoot, only for him to drop with a shout shortly after another gun was fired. Aramis grabbed Athos instantly and dragged him back out of sight, cursing slightly.

“The musket ball is lodged in there. I can’t get it out,” Aramis hissed and Porthos cursed, while d’Artagnan glanced out.

“What do you need?” he asked and Aramis sighed as he rushed to get what supplies he had from Tristan’s saddlebags.

“For them to stop shooting,” Aramis answered and d’Artagnan glanced out, ducking back slightly as he shifted his weight until he was balanced on the balls of his feet.

He shifted slightly, drawing fire again, and he shifted back, listening to Aramis cursing out the ones who ambushed them in Spanish while Porthos shot back as best he could before he went to help Aramis.

Counting, he found the rhythm, firing back only once (he was useless with a gun unless there was a wide space; he needed to work on that), figuring out where they were and then smiled over at Aramis. “Easily done,” he stated and took off before Aramis could register what he said.

He rushed through the trees, focused on running and diving behind cover as he ran, picking up speed as he ran up the hill. He drew his main-gauche as he ran and he was there on top of them. Too close for them to shoot him, hopefully, he quickly knocked the closest of the pair (surprise really _was_ everything) unconscious, but was forced to kill the second when he went at him with an axe. He panted softly, focusing on breathing before he bound the unconscious one and began to drag him back, carefully, along with the weapons.

“What the hell did you think you were doing?” Aramis demanded as he returned and he dropped the one he knocked unconscious at their feet.

“You said you needed them to stop shooting,” d’Artagnan answered and Porthos laughed as he gripped d’Artagnan, lightly, by the back of the neck, shaking him gently before pulling him into a one armed hug.

“Said like a true Musketeer,” Porthos praised and Aramis glared.

“Only if he lives that long,” Aramis grumbled.

“How is Athos?” d’Artagnan asked.

“He’ll live. I was, actually, able to get the musket ball out. If I had known you were going to _actually_ stop them from shooting I would have said you needed to stay close,” Aramis snapped and d’Artagnan looked over at Porthos, who chuckled as he pat his shoulder before going over to Aramis.

“How are we going to move them?” Aramis asked.

“Put Athos on Roger’s back,” d’Artagnan stated and Porthos snorted.

“Roger only lets Athos ride him without trouble. He’s a stuck up beast who has his vices, which include being very picky about who gets to ride him,” Aramis stated and d’Artagnan shrugged a little.

“Well, we can’t tie the idiot to his saddle. And I would like to know how they came to know what we were doing, since not even Treville knew when, exactly, we were going to deliver these,” Porthos stated and Aramis sighed.

“I’ll ride Roger, with Athos ahead of me,” d’Artagnan stated and Aramis sighed.

“When he throws you, I’m not stitching up your cracked skull,” Aramis warned and d’Artagnan nodded slightly.

“You sure?” Porthos asked as they used the fact Roger was lying down to easily pull Athos, who was still unconscious, onto his back.

“Yes,” d’Artagnan answered before he held onto Athos and gave the soft command for Roger to stand, mounting up behind the saddle once Roger was settled.

The gelding snorted and d’Artagnan winced before he reached forward, murmuring to him soothingly in the language that only he knew. The language he and his mother had created for fun, before making it their little secret from his father, much to his amusement. Gripping Athos carefully, he guided Roger out of the way as the others got ready, Aramis checking over the weapons d’Artagnan had dragged down. “The other man, is he dead?” Aramis asked and d’Artagnan nodded.

“Didn’t have much choice in the matter,” d’Artagnan answered and Aramis nodded before asking him to show him where he was.

D’Artagnan obeyed.

After all, he was pretty sure Aramis would never ask for anything unreasonable.

*~*~*

Athos groaned in pain as he came to, realizing that he was on horseback, a pair of arms holding him mostly upright. “Aramis, he’s up,” d’Artagnan called, practically in his ear, and Athos winced away from him, even as d’Artagnan murmured an apology.

He blinked a few times, realizing they had come to a stop and he twitched when Aramis was suddenly there. “You think you can ride on your own?” Aramis asked, once he finished doing a quick check.

“Just get me on Roger,” Athos answered and Aramis smirked, even as he felt d’Artagnan slowly letting him go.

“You are,” Aramis answered and Athos blinked down at the horse’s neck as he felt d’Artagnan dismount from behind him.

“Roger…hates people riding him,” Athos panted as he glanced over to where d’Artagnan and Porthos were dragging someone off of Portia’s saddle.

“Ask him. He wouldn’t tell us the secret,” Aramis stated as he checked Athos’s wound and Athos merely nodded before he accepted Aramis’s approval, if it could be called that, of the wound.

“I think a stretch of the legs will do you some good,” Porthos stated, shoving at the man out in front of him as d’Artagnan mounted up on his mare’s back, drawing his pistol to aim it at the man’s back.

“Starting now would be good. We have a lot of distance to cover,” d’Artagnan stated as Porthos mounted back up onto Petite.

Athos groaned, collecting up the reins and gently nudged Roger’s sides to follow after d’Artagnan and Porthos, Aramis following him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, suggestions for a better series title are appreciated.
> 
> THANK YOU grabmotte for telling me the proper name for Aramis's rifle, because I could not find it. My Google-fu is like...sad. A two year old could beat me.


	5. Accident (Animal Injury)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An accident happens and d'Art runs for a surgeon.
> 
> Multiple times.
> 
> (Set after Commodities by a whole few days)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, fun discovery; on my nth time rewatching "Friends and Enemies" I discovered that the sword d'Art carries is his father's sword. His own was stolen, he stole a Red Guard's in return and used that. And the Red Guard that stole his got away, and the sword he carries doesn’t look like the one he stole from the Red Guard.
> 
> I decided that this means that d'Art carries his father's sword, first because the idea of killing the man who with the sword of the man he killed was too poetic to let go (I would have, admittedly, done this had this happened to me; poetic justice) and later to keep a piece of his father with him.
> 
> And also because he lost his sword.

Aramis laughed as he darted away from Athos, as if he were dancing really, while d'Artagnan and Porthos sat on the bench in the Garrison’s courtyard and watched them. Athos easily stepped back with his rapier at the ready as Aramis darted forward to playfully smack at Athos's side. Well, that seemed to be his plan, though Athos just side-stepped easily and struck Aramis on his back with the flat of the blade. "Be serious Aramis, this is not a game," Athos scolded as he began to circle Aramis, who seemed to just laugh with a light shrug.

"I have to tire you out for even a chance to beat you. Consider this...making our footing a bit equal," Aramis responded and Porthos chuckled.

"He said that to me once when he kicked my feet out from under me. In a mock duel," Porthos stated and d'Artagnan laughed softly, wondering if he was the only one who could see the heaviness that was in Athos’s eyes, that mix of grief and self-loathing that had become prominent with the burning of the home he shared with his murderess of a wife.

Aramis did some more dancing around Athos before Athos finally disarmed him.

Aramis said a few things in his ‘defense’ and retrieved his sword quickly before turning back to Athos. “D’Artagnan,” Athos called and d’Artagnan stood, easily walking over to where Athos was, drawing his blade with some trepidation.

Despite the hard months of training he had gone through, he knew Athos was a superior swordsman. “Don’t look so concerned,” Athos stated and d’Artagnan nodded slightly as he stepped into position.

They both play the waiting game before Athos pauses and pulls back. “You never wait,” he stated and d’Artagnan smiled.

“If I charge you, I’ll end up flat on my back far too quickly,” he answered and Athos’s head shifted, as if he was smiling, before he stepped back into position.

And they began.

The clash of swords filled the air with Aramis and Porthos’s cheering as they circled each other.

Porthos seemed to be in the mood to lose, as he was cheering on d’Artagnan.

D’Artagnan smiled a little, working on gaining ground but forcing himself to retreat each time. He continued to back up, until he was disarmed, Athos’s sword resting against his throat.

“I yield,” d’Artagnan stated and Athos nodded before he removed his sword.

“You need to work on attacking while retreating. Just because you were moving away from your attacker doesn’t mean you have to go on the defensive,” Athos stated and d’Artagnan smiled before he went to collect his sword (his father’s sword), fighting back a wince when Porthos kicked it up and caught it before he handed it over to Aramis.

He didn’t hesitate to sheathe his main-gauche and give Porthos a look. “Is this wise?” he inquired.

“I’m not the one you’ll be fighting. I’ll be the one correcting your posture,” Porthos answered as Athos began to remove a majority of his gear.

D’Artagnan resisted the urge to slump and instead settled back on his heels, wincing when Porthos kicked at his heels till he shifted to the position Porthos wanted. “Never done it like this before. Prefer to send my trainees to the ground to teach them things,” Porthos stated and Aramis snorted.

“That is why you aren’t allowed near the poor trainees anymore,” Aramis stated.

“Except for d’Artagnan,” Athos answered as he stepped into the spot across from d’Artagnan.

“Of course not. D’Artagnan is _ours_ ,” Porthos answered and d’Artagnan ducked his head slightly to hide his pleased smile at the claim.

*~*~*

“I can’t wait till your shoulder his healed,” d’Artagnan grumbled as he fell onto the bench, wondering if they were going to eat now that it was past midday.

Porthos chuckled and ruffled his hair, despite d’Artagnan’s protests, while Aramis looked over d’Artagnan’s sword.

D’Artagnan didn’t bother to ask for his sword back yet, trusting his friends with the physical reminder of his father, even if they did kick it about a bit. “This is a bit old-fashioned,” Aramis stated as he handed d’Artagnan back his sword, hilt first.

He nodded in agreement as he sheathed it. “Balance seems off as well,” Aramis continued and d’Artagnan gave another small nod of agreement, hoping he would drop it.

D’Artagnan had adjusted, of course, to the slightly off weight, having sold his sword for extra coin and kept his father’s. The poetic justice of using his murdered father’s sword to bring down the one who murdered him had been too much to give up.

“Well, I think all this hard work has earned us a respite,” Porthos stated as he stood next to d’Artagnan, foot next to his leg.

“Would this respite take place at our favored tavern?” Athos inquired and Porthos chuckled.

“It could,” Porthos answered lightly, and Aramis grinned.

Soon all four were up on their feet and heading for the tavern, as they were, technically, on leave for a few days and, collectively, on light duty until Porthos finished healing.

Treville knew it was pointless to try and split the four up, even if it would make his life _much_ easier.

*~*~*

Aramis smiled as he gave a bow to a woman at the tavern before he stood up, settling his hat on his head. Porthos was with him, the pair having taken to sharing lodgings to cut back on costs, and managed to _not_ shake his head at Aramis’s antics. They immediately started out when they heard a shout.

Turning as one, they recoiled to the side when they saw a horse drawn wagon careening through the streets. Coated as he was in sweat, Porthos was surprised the horse hadn’t stopped on his own yet, when Aramis was running towards the horse. “Aramis!” he shouted, trying to grab him with his injured arm, forcing him to recoil as Aramis ran forward and pulled an old lady out of the way, shoving her towards a group of people.

The horse screamed and tried to turn, only to fall on his knees, the wagon twisting with the movement before both crashed to the cobblestone.

The wagon, however, crashed onto Aramis.

“Aramis!” Porthos shouted, rushing toward the wreckage of a wagon, the horse tied up in the harness and broken wood, panicking on the ground as people milled about.

Athos was there, however, and he watched as d’Artagnan went to the horse. “D’Artagnan!” he hissed, only for Athos to shake his head.

“We will get Aramis out. D’Artagnan will make sure the horse won’t kick him in the head,” Athos stated and both focused on clearing the wood.

Aramis was freed after what seemed like hours (though it did not take nearly so long) bloody and unconscious, with what could be wood stuck in him, d’Artagnan appearing at their side. “We need to get him to the Garrison, and then a surgeon,” Athos stated and Porthos grit his teeth.

“I’ll get the surgeon. I just need to know where to find him,” d’Artagnan stated.

“Go to the Garrison, the fifth street on the left, fourth street on the right, and third door on the right. His name is du Pont. If you can’t get him, run to the end of the lane, go up three streets and turn left. Run straight down it until you pass four streets going up and down, then four doors on your left. There is the surgeon Lavoie. After that, I don’t know. You’ll have to ask,” Athos stated and glanced at Porthos.

“You get the legs, I’ll get the head,” Athos stated, even as d’Artagnan tears off, weaving through the crowd, and is gone faster than a child pickpocket from the Court.

*~*~*

D’Artagnan mentally reviews the instructions as he runs through the streets, adjusting them when he has to avoid a large group of people. He moves as quickly as possible, feeling as if he’s going to have his lungs come straight out his throat, even as he stumbles to a stop in front of the surgeon’s house. He pounds on the door, working on catching his breath, and starts a bit when a manservant enters.

“Is the surgeon, du Pont, here?” he inquired and the manservant shakes his head.

“No. He was called away,” the manservant stated and d’Artagnan gave his thanks before he ran off again, already calculating the next one.

He ran until his legs felt like they would throb right off, as he stumbled to the next door, pounding on the door. He is surprised when a woman answers and he hesitantly asks, “Madame Lavoie?” he inquired breathlessly and she nodded.

“Madame, is your husband here? He’s need at the Musketeers’ Garrison,” d’Artagnan explained, feeling as if his breathing wasn’t going to be coming back.

“He’s been called away. Try…five lanes down from here, fourth door on the right once you turn onto the fifth lane on the right. Monsieur Masson, is how he calls himself. He is a surgeon. He might still be at home,” she stated and d’Artagnan nodded, giving his thanks before he was off once more.

*~*~*

“Where is he?” Porthos grumbled as they settled Aramis on a bed in the medical.

They had never had a surgeon attached to the Musketeers’ Garrison, most of the Musketeers able to patch them up, but with head injuries and…things beings lodged in the body, they needed a surgeon. They kept him still, even as they waited for the surgeon, surprised when Monsieur Masson entered. “The big one can stay. You, out,” he ordered and Athos retreated to find d’Artagnan flopped onto a bench, clothing soaked with sweat and panting.

“How’s Aramis?” he gasped out.

“The surgeon’s with him. I was surprised to see Monsieur Masson here,” Athos stated.

“Only…one…available. Apparently…he thought it worth it, since I could only say ‘Garrison’ and ‘help’,” d’Artagnan panted out before he began to breathe sharply through his nose and exhaled with his mouth.

Athos chuckled and carefully ruffled his hair, ignoring d’Artagnan’s whine of protest. “You want to go get the horse from where we left him?” he inquired and d’Artagnan let out another whine, which had Athos’s lips quirking up slightly.

*~*~*

Aramis, as it turned out, only took a hard knock to the head, along with some cuts and, while some wood had cut through his uniform, it had not lodge in him. Monsieur Masson gave them his version of praise (“At least you weren’t _complete_ idiots,”) and went on his way, saying to get him if the swelling gets worse.

Well, told them to send the boy, which had Porthos chuckling as he hauled d’Artagnan in to sit next to him.

Now, with Aramis twitching awaking, and d’Artagnan asleep slumped onto Athos’s shoulder, Porthos couldn’t stop his smile if he tried. Especially when Aramis demanded to know what happened to the old woman he saved after the first few groggy minutes passed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone have any ideas of a better name for this series?


	6. Knife Wound (Probably Inaccurate 1630s Field Medicine and a Not-At-All-Gory Knife Wound Description)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D'Artagnan gets injured defending Porthos.
> 
> And Porthos runs.
> 
> (Set after _The Good Soldier_ by about a month and right before _Homecoming_ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, 1630s medicine.
> 
> Yeah, I did my best, but probably not accurate.

Porthos grunted as he felt a lithe form slam into his body, followed by d'Artagnan’s shout of, "Porthos get down!"

He hit the ground as a cry of pain filled the air, followed closely by D'Artagnan landing on him. Porthos scrambled slightly and stared at d’Artagnan who was gripping tight to a knife that was right lodged in his left shoulder, blood seeping out from around the hilt as Porthos drew his pistol. Without any hesitance he fired back and the man who had thrown the knife crumpled to the ground. Silence filled the heated air, the last of their opponents having been silenced in this forest, and Porthos immediately turned to d’Artagnan.

Porthos carefully lifted the shivering d’Artagnan up, ignoring d’Artagnan’s small sounds of pain, making sure the knife stayed still. “You little idiot,” he growled as he looked around for something to tie the knife into place, even as he carefully held it in place.

He ignored d’Artagnan’s cry of pain, but not the way d’Artagnan’s eyes started to roll up and his eyelids fluttered. “Hey, look at me!” Porthos ordered, grabbing d’Artagnan’s face without thinking about it, staining d’Artagnan’s cheek with his own blood.

D’Artagnan looked up at him, obviously struggling to do so. “Look at my face and don’t you _dare_ look away, you understand me?” Porthos ordered as he slowly laid d’Artagnan back down, removing his belt and cutting the cloth from their closest enemy.

“Where are the others?” d’Artagnan asked, his eyes getting that distant look that came with extreme pain while he shivered.

The obvious detachment wasn’t a good sign. Aramis once said that these signs lead to something called _shock_ and they had to keep whoever it was warm. “Right up the road,” Porthos stated as he mentally tracked the path to the campsite.

They had been tracking bandits, only for the bandits to come to them. The moment they were hit, Porthos and d’Artagnan had gone off after them, leaving Aramis and Athos to defend the campsite, on foot.

Porthos was starting to believe that they should have at least brought Portia, considering how only Roger beat her in the calm department when musket fire started.

He shook the thoughts off for now and, instead, he just focused on tying the knife into place, along with d’Artagnan’s arm and binding it all tightly with his belt, forcing himself to ignore the cries of pain. When he pressed his forehead to d’Artagnan’s forehead, he hated how clammy it felt against his forehead. “Hey,” he whispered and d’Artagnan looked up at him as best as he could, still shivering.

“Focus on me, whelp, and don’t you dare pass out,” Porthos ordered and felt d’Artagnan nod weakly before he sat up.

After he made sure he hadn’t pulled it so tight d’Artagnan would lose his arm, he began to shift d’Artagnan so he could pick him up, ignoring the way he whined in pain. “Shouldn’t we…wait?” d’Artagnan asked in a slightly slurring voice and Porthos shook his head.

“No, they’re waiting for us, remember?” Porthos stated as he finally cradled d’Artagnan close as he stood up.

With a deep sigh, clutching tighter to d’Artagnan, he began to run.

*~*~*

It seemed so much longer, now that he was literally holding d’Artagnan’s life in his hands, to run back to the camp they had made. Every shuddery breath reminding him that d’Artagnan was still alive, for now, but the next breath might not come. He picked up speed, running all the faster each time that thought crossed his mind until he felt as if his chest was burning and his legs were just useless weights.

He wondered how d’Artagnan did it, always running like he did. He was faster than them all, running as he did right on the heels of danger or straight into it. Always willing to run for them.

Now, Porthos put years of living on the streets to use, to run as if the hounds of Hell itself were at his heels, hoping he didn’t trip over a root and send himself sprawling flat on his face and crushing his precious cargo.

*~*~*

Aramis huffed as he removed his hat and ran his fingers through his sweat soaked hair. “I can’t believe they haven’t come back yet,” Aramis stated, even as Athos pulled out a bottle of wine from his saddlebag.

The horses snorted softly, all of them being oddly fidgety, especially Portia and Roger, both of whom seemed focused in the distance. Aramis twisted around to see what they were looking at just as the sounds of someone crashing through the underbrush came to them.

He immediately grabbed his arquebus and aimed, only to start when Porthos came crashing into the campsite. For a moment, Aramis stilled, Athos’s shout of, “D’Artagnan!” snapping him out of it.

Without hesitating, the set his arquebus down and rushed to Porthos’s side, wincing when he realizes d’Artagnan had a knife in his shoulder that was also tied in place. “Athos, start up a fire, and set up…anything warm you don’t mind getting stained with blood,” he ordered, even as he glanced up at Porthos, who was heaving for breath and completely soaked with sweat.

“What happened?” he asked softly.

“Little idiot pushed me out of the way and got injured in my stead,” Porthos gasped out and Aramis nodded before he followed Athos’s call that he had a makeshift bed that was close enough to the fire to feel some heat (which, combined with the heat already present in the air, made the clearing feel like it was trapped inside its own hot box) was ready.

They were careful as they lowered d’Artagnan down and began to work on keeping him calm, even as he tried to hold onto Porthos, who stayed close. Aramis yanked his own gloves off with his teeth and pressed a hand to d’Artagnan’s face, wincing at how cold it felt, as well as how shaky and shallow his breath felt against his wrist.

“Get out of everything but the necessary layers, Porthos. If I didn’t need you, I’d send you to the river, but I can’t chance that right now,” Aramis ordered as he cut d’Artagnan’s shirt off, doing his best not to disrupt the binding holding the knife still, though he winced at each whimpered sound the escaped their boy’s throat.

“Po…thos,” d’Artagnan whined and suddenly Porthos was at his head, running his bare hands through d’Artagnan’s hair, half out of his uniform.

“Sorry, I’m here. Aramis is going to take care of you now,” Porthos soothed gently as Aramis encouraged d’Artagnan to bite down on a strip of leather.

“You want Athos?” Porthos asked softly, though he had to repeat himself a few times before d’Artagnan seemed to understand him and d’Artagnan nodded enough to be understood immediately after.

“All right. Athos!” Porthos called and Athos was there, having removed some of his own layers as well, and tucking them around d’Artagnan without even having to be asked.

“Keep him awake as long as you can. Porthos…” Aramis began, only to fall silent as he stared almost helplessly at Porthos.

D’Artagnan was in shock and the fact of the matter was, he was damned if he did anything and damned if he didn’t. Removing the knife could very well kill their boy (though he was more _Athos’s_ than _theirs_ , but theirs all the same), but leaving it in would do the same. Porthos, however, just held onto d’Artagnan’s legs as Athos held onto d’Artagnan more securely, avoiding the way the knife was still tied to him, _in_ him. “Just hurry,” Athos stated before he focused entirely on d’Artagnan.

Aramis immediately focused on the bindings and began to undo them quickly, keeping the cleaner parts to help staunch the flow. He already insured that the bottle of wine was without the cork and he gently gripped the handle of the knife, clearing away the rest of the shirt. “I’m sorry,” he stated and, carefully, pulled it out as quickly as he could.

D’Artagnan arched, screaming through the leather, but the other two held him sill as Aramis began to clean off the wound, d’Artagnan shaking his head even as Athos kept up a running monologue with him.

He would push later, for now, he just prayed (he was praying out loud, he realized after a few minutes, in Spanish, as his mother had, and in Latin, as he had learned in school) for d’Artagnan to stay alive as he continued to clean it out. When d’Artagnan stilled, Aramis stopped dead, terrified he had just killed their boy. “He’s alive, work!” Athos stated and Aramis immediately continued, praying it was cleaned out enough, that the cloths he had in the field medical bag were as clean as he had made them as he cleaned off the blood.

He threaded it quickly, ignoring how stained his hands were, before he leaned over the knife wound. His stitches were fine and quick, Athos still talking softly, even though d’Artagnan was unconscious.

When he was done, he carefully padded the wound and wrapped the padding to the shoulder. Once reassured his stitching wouldn’t be irritated, he bound d’Artagnan’s arm to his torso, working it around to keep it unmoving.

Only then, with the help of Porthos did he begin to cover d’Artagnan up in their spare layers, Athos pulling d’Artagnan quickly, yet carefully, to him, once they were done. He even went a step farther in that he got them both rather painlessly to the fire, keeping d’Artagnan closest to him before curling around him, like a mama cat around her one kitten.

It was almost…touching, except there was a desperation to it that made Aramis swallow slightly. That these actions, even more than the running monologue he _still_ was keeping up, solidified in his mind that something had happened to them during the Bonnaire incident.

That whatever it was had meant that d’Artagnan, who already didn’t like to keep secrets (or lie, but he had been willing to do both to Treville for Aramis and Aramis pointedly stopped thinking about that, this forest was bad enough, but the heat made it better), did both for Athos readily.

Aramis knew, in a way that was less knowledge and more…nuance, that whatever secret these two shared, had made them as close to each other as Aramis was to Porthos. Porthos, who was wrapping a blanket around his shoulders before setting about cleaning off his hands. “Ah, back to us then? Joining the horses in silent contemplation of d’Artagnan?” Porthos stated and Aramis stared at him.

“What?” he inquired and Porthos nodded over to where the horses were picketed, only to find that both Portia and Roger had pulled themselves to the end of their lead to get closer to d’Artagnan.

Maybe Roger wanted to check on Athos, but it was far more likely that they were wanting to check on d’Artagnan.

“You know, he still hasn’t explained why that creature adores him,” Aramis murmured sleepily as his limbs shook and Porthos chuckled before helping to haul him to his feet.

“How is he?” Porthos asked softly.

“If he survives the night? He’ll make it,” Aramis stated and Athos curled tighter around d’Artagnan.

“All right. We’ll just make sure that happens,” Porthos stated and Aramis chuckled weakly as he was helped over to the fire, surprised to find that sun was starting to set.

“What do we tell Treville?” Porthos asked and Aramis slumped against Porthos.

“That our little idiot got himself stabbed,” Athos stated as he brushed d’Artagnan’s hair out of his too pale, too still face.

“Still breathing?” Aramis questioned and Athos nodded.

*~*~*

The day dawned with a soft whine from d’Artagnan and him blinking tiredly around him. “He’ll live,” Aramis called and d’Artagnan only blinked around in confusion.

“How did I get back to camp?” he asked, once breakfast was being shoved at him, Athos refusing to leave his side, even wrapping his cloak around d’Artagnan’s shoulders.

“Porthos ran,” Aramis answered and d’Artagnan smiled at the large Musketeer brightly in response to that before he ducked his head to eat, which had Porthos leaning forward to ruffle his hair, despite d’Artagnan’s protests.

And Athos smiled behind his bowl of stew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what was supposed to originally happen?
> 
> Over reaction and Porthos running for no reason and then yelling at d'Art for it.
> 
> Instead, this happened.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, you can prompt me if you want for this verse! Like, things you want to see or stuff.
> 
> Um, this is Gen, for the boys at least.
> 
> Other then that, free game. Just remember that in this, d'Art's first name is Alex (which throws me too, but...2 am brain. Normally I use Charles, like the real d'Artagnan.)


End file.
